In the Patron Saint's Daybook who we thought we were and what we become may never handshake.
The dark holds s ance and storm, the old person on the bus - longing and a shaved room,
the bronzed sky - a trilogy of stars climbing.
In the Patron Saint's Daybook the forgotten arrive first, the past holds a keepsake of birds,
the forest in your palm sleeps safe, as if it was never stolen.
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Poetry